Time plays tricks, doesn’t it? What looked like gold-plated truth in the exuberance of youth appears cheap and tawdry in the unforgiving light of experience. In 1975 I wrote a story for Texas Monthly in which I concluded that Jack Ruby acted alone, that one lone nut killed another. I don’t believe that anymore.
My friend Bud Shrake, who shared an apartment with me on Cole Avenue in 1963, recently refreshed my memory. Ruby and other characters from the Carousel Club, including an unforgettable stripper named